


Stanley and the Boy

by magpiesflyinghome



Series: Somewhere We Knew Each Other [2]
Category: I Am Not Okay with This (TV 2020), IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Dreams, Other, Stan’s Bar Mitzvah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:00:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23581996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magpiesflyinghome/pseuds/magpiesflyinghome
Summary: Dreams are plaguing him, but this is the only one he can remember.
Relationships: Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris (Mentioned)
Series: Somewhere We Knew Each Other [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1697443
Comments: 1
Kudos: 41





	Stanley and the Boy

_Ever since Stan met Syd, he has been having dreams. He can’t remember them, but they leave him shaking and crying in the dark. His screams are the only thing that takes him out of the nightmare realm that his dormant mind has become. It’s what has led him to this moment, holding himself in the light of a lit candle in his bedroom, and running through the only dream he can recall. The one he just woke up from, and there is something bittersweet about it. It’s the only one he has remembered in the past month, since they started, and it’s a day he never lived._

_Stan had woken up to a room that wasn’t his, as it was a pristine white that was semi-bare. The wall was decorated with two frames that he couldn’t see from the bed, and the ceiling is just as bleak._ _It just felt so…_

_(sad.)_

The clock keeps ringing, the incessant loud noise piercing his ears and setting up a headache. His fingers meet the bells on the old looking clock and it finally stops. He lets out a sigh of relief and sits upon the bed. His legs hang over it and are hovered over the floor below him. The light blue sheets blend in with the striped pajama pants he has on. The cold is seeping up from the floor and towards his bare feet.

Usually, Stan wouldn’t let his legs dwell next to the empty space under his bed, as an irrational fear sets in. He doesn’t feel that fear, that little thought that there could be a monster there, the monster was already defeated.

His morning routine is quick and quiet as he moves around this room grabbing a silver suit from a hanger, a nice shirt from the closet and a tie from a container under his bed. He lays it out on the desk with the socks and shoes he grabbed from the rack next to his door. There is hesitation to take off the ratty black t-shirt currently trapping his torso in a cigarette scented cage, but he folds it and hides it under his pillow. His hand lingers for a moment like he wants to put it back on under the suit. He pulls himself away and ushers off the pajama pants and puts them into the nicely kept hamper next to the shoe-rack.

He slides on the pants and tucks in the shirt, and his hands tremble while he puts on the tie. The suit jacket is too big in the shoulders, and it makes him feel even less like a man. Stan walks towards the small carton of fabric discs that sit on his bookshelf next to a bag of hair clips. He grabs a dark green one and sits down on the edge of his bed. He rolls on his socks and slips his feet into the dress shoes, and he knows they are too big in the toe. Everything is too big on his thin and boyish frame.

The last part of his routine is to completely ruin his hair with gel. The small jar of it on his desk is something his mom bought him and telling him that he is going to have to use it. Stan sighs and twists off the lid and places it on the bird encyclopedia. He puts a handful of it on his palm and he starts to run his hands over his curls. A gag almost left his throat as he grabbed more and slathered it on further. The product made his hair slick and straight.

The fabric disc slides over the crown of his head easier than normal, considering his head is basically lubed up. He has a feeling it will dry to his hair.

He reshuffles his shirt a few times, ignoring the worries slipping through his mind. Underneath all of this, his true feelings lie dormant, he doesn’t want to do this: to wear the suit, say those words, to become something he isn’t, and he knows he never will be. He looks to the left, his eyes landing on the closest frame. It’s only him and another boy in the shot. They are clinging together, a nervous smile on his face and a large grin on the black-haired boy’s face. A basket is sat next to them with a blanket and book overflowing out of it. The other boy’s glasses are in younger Stan’s hands and he can see the freckles littering his cheeks. Laughter fills Stan’s ears as he looks at it, and he has the urge to put the photo in his pocket.

He knows that it’s silly, the want to have that boy in his pocket, encouraging him to do this. To move on. To say those words. He forces himself to look away, this is something he has to do alone.

The house is quiet as he creaks down the steps, the wood groaning under his weight. Only a small number of photos sit on the walls, and the ones that are left up have cold beady eyes that follow you. His room feels warm compared to the coldness oozing from the light gray walls of the stairs. There is no love in this house, just the words said and the commanding actions of his father. The only warmth he can feel down here is coming from the scuff in the paint from the time his friend hit the wall while tumbling down the stairs one morning. He runs his finger over the scuff and smiles to himself.

His shoes clack on the kitchen tile as he walks to grab something to eat and wait for one of his parents to come down and walk with him. If they are even home currently.

He grabs an apple and leans against the counter, taking a bite into the hard skin. Then his eyes catch on a new piece of paper on the fridge, being held up by a magnet shaped like a triangle. He lifts off and takes a step towards it, curiosity thrumming through his veins. The apple is loose in his hand as he steps even closer, and then the message is washing over his brain in recognition. _Ah_.

It falls out of his hand and hits the floor, possibly sending sticky juice throughout the kitchen. He didn’t exactly care in that exact second, he was more focused on the fact that his parents weren’t even walking him to his Bar Mitzvah. He was going to pass Neibolt street and the Kenduskeag _alone._ A sour look blooms across his face and he tears down the note. He crumples the paper in his hands, and he shoves it into the trash can. The apple lays on the floor; forgotten.

Anger flows through his veins and leaves a sour taste in his mouth, _fuck them_.

He slams the front door closed and starts the walk towards the synagogue. It’s just like his parents to do something like this, leaving their unwanted and _queer_ boy to walk to his birthday celebration alone. Stan seethes, his teeth grinding as he walks towards the temple. His fists are clenched at his side, and he can’t help but feel betrayed. They were the ones who made a big deal out of it, they were the ones this was for.

A voice slams into his back as he walks, and he abruptly stops. He turns to look at the owner of the voice and his shoulders relax. The boy bounds up to him in the ugliest blue suit that Stan has ever seen, but his friend somehow pulls it off. There is a woman who is trailing behind him, her legs swaying easily in the breeze and her gaze on the horizon. For some reason, Stan pulls the boy a little closer to him and looks at her warily. “Don’t you worry, Stanny, she’s sober,” the friend whispers, smiling, and Stan releases his grip on the boy’s hand. There is something they don’t say, but he nods, and they start to walk again. He doesn’t even notice when his friend slips an arm over his shoulders. A joke is whispered into his ear and he laughs loudly, whispering one back.

The giggles and cackles die in his throat when they reach the temple. He doesn’t know why he is so scared, or maybe he does, and he doesn’t want to think about it. The woman splits off from trailing them to meet with another group of women that are taking up the main cement path towards the building. They are stood at the edge of the trimmed yard, Stan trying to build up the mental fortitude to take a step towards the building. His friend is whispering into his ear a story that he knows is fake, but ultimately sends him into a burst of giggles.

His friend is able to coax him towards the heavy double doors, and they stand in the entryway for a moment. One of the other men from the congregation tells him to get a copy of the Torah and his ceremonial garb, so he and his friend start the walk towards his father’s office.

There is an underlying layer of fear under every footstep he takes, and it makes him more and more terrified to enter the office door at the end of the hallway. His friend doesn’t say anything but shifts his arm more protectively over Stan’s side, and Stan knows they aren’t talking about something. In this memory, he knows, but he doesn’t on the outside of it.

The two of them reach the heavy door with a scuffed nameplate that is distorted. His friend switches which side he was on, now protecting Stan’s left side, an arm looped around his torso. He knows they look dumb, but he feels safe, secure, and no longer astray. The black-haired boy is here to protect him from the harm that lays behind the door. _That portrait_.

When he slowly opens the door his friend pushes Stan so close to him that they feel like one, and he doesn’t really feel awful about that idea. If the before hadn’t happened maybe Stan would be in here alone, maybe he wouldn’t fear that horrible portrait in the corner. That woman would hold no power over him, and he would be able to tell her to take her flute and shove it somewhere not so nice. With his best friend here he could, and he knows he can, but alone he would be too scared to. He would cower under her as she sunk her mishappened teeth into him like some sort of steak.

That wrestles a memory to the forefront of his mind, one he can’t see and knows that it doesn’t exist in this one, yet. It’s from after this blue suit, from a time without the boy next to him, and bright lights are blinding him. He is thrown back to the office, and he easily finds the scarves and the book. Stan faces the door and then he is thrown out of his brain again.

The woman smiles over him, and he is screaming, but that’s all he hears. His vision is muddled and dark and he is crying. His eyes are bleary, and he just wants to go home, he shouldn’t have come, he shouldn’t have let Bill convince him to be there. _The rest of the memory is hazy, and he can’t find the correct catalyst to make it continue, to clear up what is happening. His brain is working overtime to try and find out more, but it sits at the edges of his consciousness, taunting him once again with the information he doesn’t know. There is so much more to this than the Bar Mitzvah, this boy, and this woman. It’s also shrouded in fear, and it’s suffocating his lungs with vines of thorns. He can’t breathe and his vision is blurry, because he doesn’t know what’s going on, but he wishes he did._

Stan comes to in the hallway of the synagogue, with his best friend holding him upright on a bench. The book and scarves are in his tightly gripped hands, his knuckles are white and starting to cramp. His eyes are on his shoes, the polished brown staring back up at him. He tries to look back up at his friend, and he is met with a toothy grin. Tears flood Stan’s eyes and he pulls the boy into a hug. Many words are unsaid as they hold each other in this dusty hallway. It goes beyond his thanks, his worries, and how much he loves that self-sacrificing idiot, but that’s where he would start.

When they pull apart, he is met with a different kind of smile, one that only graces his best friend’s face on a specific occasion. Adrenaline fills Stan’s bloodstream and he pulls the boy back into a hug and he whispers the thanks into his friend’s greasy black hair. He gets a laugh in response, one that made his heart pound even faster.

His mother interrupts the moment by ushering Stan away from his protector, and Stan watches him walk back down the hallway towards the pews. She leads him through a series of hallways, while he tries to put the scarves on in the correct order and his shaky hands are trying to find the correct pages. They reach the main room, and Stan wishes he could turn around and never walk in here again. The room is full of people, every single row completely covered with people. He sets the book down on the table and stands next to his father.

He wishes his best friend could be next to him, instead of his parents. The nerves slowly destroying his stomach wouldn’t be as horrible, and maybe he wouldn’t feel scared. Maybe he would feel better, confident, maybe even charming. So instead of wishing he does the next best thing and searches for the boy in the crowd. The gaudy as hell blue suit is a good beacon and he spots his friend immediately and gets a friendly wave sent in his direction. His cold demeanor splits for a moment and a smile is shot back at the boy, but it is taped shut when his father starts the ceremony.

The dreaded words he has to say are sitting on the paper in front of him, and he forces himself through them. He will forget them tomorrow, so what’s the point. His speech about becoming a man is next, and he tries to hide the disappointment that has taken over his stomach. There are people he wanted to be there, a group of faces that are blurry in his mind. They were supposed to show up, but only the boy in the powder-blue suit did. His best friend, his secret favorite, his sole confidant. He steps up to the microphone.

After the first word leaves his mouth it all goes to shit, he starts to pour himself into this speech, this dumb improvisation about how he is somehow different today to who he was the day before. Before he knows it, he dropped the f-bomb and he runs out of the room. He slips out of the heavy front doors and the mid-noon sun hits him in the face. He flinches and closes his eyes, trying to adjust his vision before he walks away from the shitshow of his own creation.

Stan ambles over to the sidewalk, sitting down on the ledge and pulling his knees to his chest. He just fucked up big time, and he knows he deserved it this time.

The front doors of the building slam open and Stan flinches, knowing it’ll be his father, ready to chew him out in front of the whole population of…

_Of where? He can’t recall_.

The loud footsteps stomp towards him and he tries to curl in on himself even further. Instead of the harsh tones of his father he hears, “That is the first and last coolest thing you’ve ever done, Stan the Man.” His head whips to look at his best friend, and then he promptly bursts into tears. He fucked this up, really, really bad.

Stan doesn’t hear his best friend sitting next to him over his cries, but he feels when an arm gets draped over his huddled shoulders. Kind words are being spoken into his curls and he closes his eyes. He isn’t calm, but more at peace. There is a lingering feeling, that he doesn’t deserve this, this love and affection from the person closest to him. He was a scaredy-cat during Bill’s brother-search, and he can’t even enter his dad’s office without freaking out over the non-existent woman.

His breath hitches as the temple doors slam open again, but this time Stan knows that it’s his dad. He can feel it in his bones, and he can’t stop the whimper that escaped his lips and got lost in his best friend’s shoulder. His heartbeat is thundering in his ears because he knows something bad is going to happen to him, to his best friend, and he wishes that he could fall through the floor.

The footsteps are cut short by the boy next to him grabbing Stan’s hand and pulling him up and away, their feet running. Their nice shoes are getting scuffed in the all-out sprint away from the temple, from his dad, and from whatever else bothering him. At some point during their run, his crying turned to out of breath laughter. Their town is a blur as they continue, their giggles taking him back to the smaller versions of themselves that wreaked havoc during the summer times. It took his mind to the time when it was just them, two best friends who needed to protect each other from their classmates, from any adult in town, and from the _monsters_.

A smile worms it’s way on his face and he knows that he would follow the dumbass next to him until the sun burned out. The boy next to him meets his eyes and swings their interlocked hands. There is something on his friend’s mind, and Stan can see the gears churning in his head. “I wanna show you something,” he illuminates, and Stan nods. “Lead the way, scarecrow.”

His friend smiles at him, “Sure thang crawlin’,” and that’s when Stan lightly slaps the arm closest to him. “That the best crow nickname you got?” He smirks, raising an eyebrow. “Stanny, I have so many crow names that you’ll be leaking them by the end of the day,” a shit-eating grin is on his friend’s freckled face. “Beep beep, asshole,” Stan smiles, “Now are you actually going to show me or are we going to stand here forever?”

They walk for a while through the trees and come across a small clearing. His friend searches the grass for something, and when he does, he falls through the grass. Stan scrambles over to the square hole his best friend fell into and looks down at him. He gets a thumbs up in response and tries to get down without squishing the organs of the boy below.

He situates himself next to the other boy, leaning against one of the palettes. “Ben said he was going to show everyone this after…” His friend cuts himself off, but he knows what he meant. “Well, I’ll have to thank him next time I see him,” Stan smiles. It’s quiet for a moment, the birds singing one final song before they turn in for the afternoon. He takes his friend’s hand, “Thanks, Richie. This may be the last time you see me, though, I’m sure my dad is going to skin me tonight.”

Richie laughs, “That’s not very kosher of him.” Then Stan laughs uncontrollably, leaning into the body of his best friend for support. His friend joins in.

The rest of that day fades from Stan’s vision and he wakes up. _Fuck._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I am Screaming.


End file.
